


Dailog in a Barn

by DPPatricks



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: Banter, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 19:30:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14837816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DPPatricks/pseuds/DPPatricks
Summary: An alternate take on a few minutes during 'The Trap.'





	Dailog in a Barn

**Author's Note:**

> This story was accepted for the 2017 Starsky and Hutch Advent Calendar ( http://starskyhutcharchive.net/advent/2017/ ) on Day #5. My sincere thanks to Flamingo and all her *elves,* for creating the calendar every year, and to every reader who left a comment.

Okay, the first part of the plan had worked. Joey was out, away, and well into the woods. The other part had been a disaster and Starsky’d been shot. He was holding the make-shift tourniquet in place while I’d slit the jeans from his ankle to the wound, tried to keep my hands from shaking, and did a quick inspection. Shit! Didn’t look good.

“Hey, don’t worry. I tol’ ya, Gene Autry gets it there all the time.” 

God! My partner could joke under the most dire of circumstances. I refused to allow the shudder in my heart to surface and scowled. “You said he got it in the shoulder.”

“Shoulder, leg, other shoulder, other leg…” Starsky grimaced and his breath caught. “Seemed like he got shot every other week… and there are only so many body parts acceptable to parents.”

“Yeah, well, I hate to be the one to break it to you, buddy, but this isn’t a Saturday afternoon matinee.”

“I know.”

He didn’t need to say a word, I felt his pain as if I was the one with a bullet in my leg. I dug out my handkerchief, folded it into a pad, and tucked it under the slit in the faded fabric over the still-bleeding hole. 

“Listen… Gene’s pals always found him in --”

“Will you please _shut up_ about Gene Autry?” Immediately angry with myself for allowing fear to leak into my voice, I glanced at his surprised face and hunched my shoulders. “Sorry.” I tried my version of his lop-sided smile. “I was a Roy Rogers fan.”

“‘Course you were.” The smile he managed was almost genuine. “Blond horse.”

“Palomino.”

“Whatever…. Trigger, right?”

“Good memory.”

“I never forget a blond.”

I appreciated what his easy tone and simple words meant and sent him a look that told him so. The banter hadn’t solved our problem, but if it kept his mind off the pain I was willing to keep it going. Putting as much lightness in my voice as possible, I patted his uninjured knee. “So, how do we get ourselves out of here, Mr. Bronson?”

“You’ll think of something, Hutch. You always do. I trust you.”

“Don’t forget, Bronson got away. McQueen didn’t.”

“Then you’ll just have to do better than Steve.” The grin he sent me settled my soul. “Won’t you?”

“Guaranteed, Starsk.” I looked up at the tractor and an idea crawled into my rattled brain. “I never liked motorcycles anyway.”

*******

Bad guys, bullet wounds  
Banter helps ease pain and fears  
Until a plan forms


End file.
